


The Dignity With Which We Treat Our Dead

by TintinnabulousRunes



Series: Panem Forever [10]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, POV Alternating, POV First Person, The Rebellion Failed, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-01 19:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16290023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TintinnabulousRunes/pseuds/TintinnabulousRunes
Summary: The funerary practices of the Districts."The meeting between ignorance and knowledge, between brutality and culture - it begins in the dignity with which we treat our dead." - Frank Herbert, Dune





	1. District 1

**Midas Raptor**   
**District 1**   
**Victor of the 86th Hunger Games**

Under the simple linen drape, the body could belong to anyone. I still know it's my brother. There he lies, in the ground, the headstone already carved.

Marcel Raptor

72 - 90

Son. Brother. Tribute.

An Honorable Death

Putting that he died an honorable death is rather redundant. Those who died dishonorable deaths do not get headstones. Still, it's some strange tradition to specify an honorable death. Was it that honorable, though? Is getting torn limb from limb by a muttation something that can be considered honorable?

My stylist and hairdresser would both be horrified to see the scissors in my hand. I cut off a lock of my hair and add it to the locks of father's hair and mother's hair resting on Marcel's chest. There is no one else to gift him something of themselves. No other relatives of ours, nor friends of his. I thought that surely he would have some friends that would come for the burial. He always did make friends far more readily than I ever did.

I wish his chest would move. I wish this was all just some sick joke. That somehow, he's not dead.

I have to blink back tears. Tears are unbecoming. It's rude to cry at a funeral, to draw attention away from the dead. Funerals are for the dead, not for the living.

The grave diggers start shoveling dirt over the body while some elder who I don't really know intones quiet prayers to the spirits, asking them to accept my brother back to the dusts from whence he came.

Father looks over at me and says in a low voice, barely audible above the elder's intonations. "It's your fault he's dead."

"I know." I confirm in a whisper.

I know.


	2. District 2

**Diorite Igneo**   
**District 2**   
**Stone Carver**

The sandstone, shipped to my workshop all the way from Sand Town, is sunset colored and is a very temperamental stone to work with. I much prefer the good, solid marble from the White Stone quarries.

The stones suit the dead who will rest in them. The dead chose the stones for themselves, after all, when I visited them after they volunteered. Sandstone for Pluta Redstone, who crumbled at the worst time possible. White marble for Wolfe Kijek, who had been solid and true until the end.

With a buffer, I go over the marble one last time.

Both are fine works, if I do say so myself. Intricate knot work decorates the lip and base of both the urns. Flowers decorate the lids. Daisies for Wolfe. The tiger lilies on Pluta's urn, upon the request of her family, have been detailed with enamel. I had to get Theo to do that. My dignity has no love for having to ask for some help from my little brother's boyfriend. His skills with enamel and mosaic are fantastic, which makes it worth it at least.

I place Wolfe's urn in the carrying case, next to Pluta's. This will be the last time they will be next to each other. The male and female tributes have different wings in the Columbarium.

Not even half an hour later, right on time, there is a knock on the door. I get the case and answer.

Basalt smiles at me. "Thanks, Dio."

I pass him the case. "The honor is always mine, little brother."

Basalt takes the case, carefully cradling it against his chest. He begins to turn away, then pauses. "Oh, I almost forgot. Are you still coming over Wednesday? Theo's making tacos."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Basalt leaves and it's back to business as usual. The dead now rest so others may live and that is the way of the world.


	3. District 3

**Digit App**   
**District 3**   
**Victor of the 60th Hunger Games**

There is no way to turn down an invitation to a funeral without being incredibly rude.

So, wearing a modest black dress and holding an envelope containing condolence money, I try to find the temple where the ceremony is being held. The temple located above Juzo Takita's grocery store. The Takita family are Buddhists, as I've learned, like many others of Japanese descent that live in District 3.

My lineage is a combination of I'm not really sure what, with no hint of spirituality to my name. Even if there had been proof of any of that, the community home would have gotten rid of it. Being a Victor cannot bring that back. I've come to terms with it, and it's far safer that way, so I cannot really complain.

Actual ties to a long distant homeland, religious ties especially, are banned by the Capitol and dangerous to express. Some days it surprises me that the Capitol does not ban funerals in general. That might cross too heavy of a line, though. It's one thing for them to kill us, to kill all of these children, but to deny them any dignity in death would make the grief that much worse. Grief like that would turn rebellious fast.

In that sense, I actually don't mind the funeral that much. A bit of sedition is refreshing every now and again. The last time went horribly, it pained me greatly to see my mentors in the arena, then learn the rebellion failed before it even properly started. I can deal with the occasional funeral if it means feeling defiant again.

The grocery store is the end of a combination strip mall apartment complex, with apartments located above the stores to house the families who run the stores.

A sign on the door says closed but it still opens at my touch.

A young man, his sleeves rolled up to reveal swirls of ink that mark him as Yakuza, nods to me. "Head on up."

Yakuza, I can deal with better than priests even. That's familiar ground. I would have likely joined up with them, had I not been Reaped. The Triad tried to scout me after I emerged as a Victor. I turned down that offer but I think Jian did accept it, given the company he keeps and that his husband is the son of one of the known Triad bosses.

The staircase leads me up to a blocked off area, likely the actual apartment. A second flight of stairs takes me to a quiet temple.

Cord's grandmother greets me. I offer the envelope with a bow and murmured, "My condolences."

She accepts the envelope and bows in turn. She does not speak, merely indicating where I should sit. I am placed next to Cord's eldest brother and his wife.

Being placed with the family is not an honor I deserve. So, it is the burden I will bear.


	4. District 4

**Hyacinth Ballast**   
**District 4**   
**Tour Guide**

Seth Nile and Delphinia Tyde. The honored dead. Willing sacrifices. Once they are able to cross over, they will walk in Elysium.

Dad says that spirits are given a choice when they get to Elysium. They can remain there or they can drink the waters from the River of Forgetfulness in order to be reborn. If their reborn spirit achieves Elysium a second time, they can once again make the choice. If their twice reborn spirit achieves Elysium for a third time, they go to the Isle of the Blessed, which is a true paradise where they remain forever.

The Polis Program was started in the fall after the 10th Hunger Games. It's possible, in the eighty years since, that many of the volunteers could be these reborn spirits from among the first of the volunteers. That would be nice. They may be able to rest for good now.

Seth, I did not know well. I think I sparred with him once or twice. Perhaps caught a glimpse at him in the mock arena. But I cannot recall an actual conversation with him.

He will be send with sword in hand, gifted with perfumed jasmine blossoms and small balls the goat cheese his mother makes.

Delph, I knew and knew well. We were friends. I teased her about Brine and she eventually warmed up to the idea that Lynn and I are together. She had started to grow out of her mean sense of humor, still delivering jabs, but able to realize when she went too far and actually apologize.

She will also go with sword in hand, her head wreathed in lilacs and gifted with three bright yellow lemons. I always thought it was the weirdest thing, how she'd eat them raw.

I've lost a lot of friends to the Games. Chara and Leonidas and Donny and Phoebe and Jason and Susan and Peter and Delph. Some days I wonder if I lost Lynn, too, even though she is still alive. The Capitol has her in its claws and I'm not strong enough to pull her free. Not yet, at least.

I do what I can to help the dead. Dad only let me join the Polis Program under the condition I would help him tend to the dead. I think it was his way of trying to talk me out of volunteering. I doubt I would have done it anyways, but it did contribute to that decision.

There is a connection that comes with tending to the dead. Helping to guide them onward. It's being a... what's the word again?

Psychopomp.

Soul-Guide.

I do not mind the role. I did not help the District by volunteering, but I help by doing this instead. It is a fair exchange.

Dad and I work on making the rafts. He hands me a hammer without a word passing between us. This is always silent work, save for the noise of crackling fire and snapping wood. It does not have to be, by any ritual or other rule, but there is no need for words.

Neith and Lynn sit equally silent, by Seth and Delph. Mentors always sit vigil for their tributes. Most of the time, family does not sit for very long, so it is up to the mentors. It is good for the spirits to have someone sit with them until the time comes for them to cross over. They can get destructive if there is no one there to comfort them.

The general absence of the families is not necessarily a bad thing. Families make noise. They cry and wail and tell stories and sing. The silence always has seemed for fitting for this work. Mentors are silent.

Piece by piece, dad and I break down the pine coffins the Capitol sends the tributes back home in. Each board is broken at least once to sever the Capitol's hold on the souls of the dead. They do not own them anymore. The broken boards are interlaced with cypress, which is Hades' wood, and supple willow, in order to make the raft. Iron nails bind the corners to tell Persephone of the Iron-Crown to welcome these souls into her and her husband's kingdom with open arms.

Some in District 4 are buried in the ground, especially those who live away from the sea in the Cannery Towns. Volunteers always go out to sea, no matter where they are from, borne by a raft that will be set alight once far enough from shore. For as long as I know of, the Ballast family has always made the rafts for the volunteers, starting with my great grandfather and grandfather when the Polis Program first started. Now it is up to my father and me. That, in the end, was the final reason I could never volunteer. I could not leave my father alone to make my raft.

With the nails in place, the rafts are nearing completion.

The fire in the stove in the corner of the room has gotten low. I stoke it back to life. The pitch bubbles in a bucket. It's a combination of birch-pitch, pine resin, and some weird Capitol plastics. It works well at both sealing the rafts and the mix is surprisingly flammable once dried, making it good for the pyre.

Sweat rolls down my face as I stir the pitch. It stings my eyes and I blink it away, along with a few stray tears. I only let myself cry when the salt of my sweat stings my eyes.

Dad works at caulking the seams, long fibers of cotton twisting between his fingers. He rolls a loose cord between his hands and his faded work jeans. It is a technique that looks simple but I've yet to even come close to mastering it. Dad uses a caulking iron and a wooden mallet to insert the cotton into the seams.

Once one seam is caulked, and dad finds his rhythm, I follow behind with the pitch to pay the seams. Why the process is called "paying," I have no idea. It is something to wonder about as I wipe sweat from my brow and tears from my cheeks.

This is needed work, making the rafts for the dead. That does not mean it is a pleasant thing or an easy thing. Quite the opposite. This is the only hard work I do without any complains. Doing it matters beyond anything else I will do in this life.

I return to the fire to reheat the pitch. Sweat drips down my brow and my arms. They salt stings my eyes and I can let a few more tears fall.

We get both of the rafts caulked and all there is left to do is wait for the pitch to cool and for night to fall.

Someone, maybe Elly, brought food at one point. It sits untouched on a table to the side of the room. It remains untouched.


	5. District 5

**Sparrow Pylon**   
**District 5**   
**Prophet/Madwoman**

"From the sky we came," I cry to the gathered crowd, enraptured by the winds and rain caressing me. "Our ancestors were borne by balloon and glider and twin-engines. The sky gave us to these lands, to be used as they will. The lands have finished with Ruthia Pinion. Now, the sky reclaims her."

The winds intensify, whipping my hair behind me like a stream of fire. Truly, Ruthia must have been powerful to have summoned these winds. "Her soul is carried by this storm, to the skies beyond. Do not weep for her, my children. For she is finally free."

The winds carry the heady scent of blood as the butchers begin their work. I can see some of the recent converts begin to grow pale. I must embolden them.

"All that is left of her is a vessel. And this vessel shall be returned to the sky as well." I look up to see the dark forms of the children beginning to circle. "See! Look up and see! The sky sends her own children in the form of great buzzards. They shall eat the flesh of the vessel and all of Ruthia will be returned to the sky."

A rock is thrown but the winds protect me, blowing it off course.

I look upon the approaching heretics. They have armed themselves with crude things of the land. With stones and metal bars.

Let them come. Let them try to break me. As long as I have a mouth with which to speak, I shall preach the truth.

"Butchers," they cry, "Monsters!"

An apparent ringleader steps forward, as if to face me. "Since the Peacekeepers won't deal with you, we're putting a stop to this madness ourselves."

"No, you won't." I tell him, as the children descend to return Ruthia's vessel to the sky. "The Peacekeepers do not interfere with our rituals because we are loyal. Unlike you heretics, we know our place in the world."

A stone strikes me in the shoulder. If I die, it matters not. My vessel will only add to the children's feast.


	6. District 6

**Jezebel Metro**   
**District 6**   
**Auto Body Painter**

A white ceramic urn with my daughter's name printed on the side is all I receive. The pine boards from the coffin were too valuable to put in the ground. So was getting a spot in the ground.

I sold the coffin. The boards that held my daughter's body now make up shelves in my neighbor's apartment.

I set the urn on the mantle, so I can keep her in my mind.

I tie my hair back and put my coveralls on. I only got a half-day of grievance time and need to get back to work for the evening shift.


	7. District 7

**Griffin Hackett**   
**District 2**   
**Peacekeeper Stationed in District 7**

Funerals are understandably emotional affairs and this gathering is particularly large and tensions run particularly deep. Security was deemed necessary. Head Peacekeeper Justinian insisted upon a full bearing of force, bayoneted rifles and side arms loaded. No truncheons. We are to use lethal force should anything occurs.

I dared not argue; the Pax Program did not train me to argue. Head Peacekeeper Justinian is from the Capitol and speaks with the authority of the Capitol. I do not disobey the Capitol. Yet, there seems to be something particularly horrifying about the thought of killing someone at a funeral.

They are mourning their children. They have a right to their anger. The Hunger Games are the eternal penance of the Districts, yes. But individuals still have a right to their pain.

The large crowd gathered within the Grove of Remembrance hushes. Carriers bear the urns containing the ashes of the deceased. The urns are simple, made of terracotta. They are far from the point, though. Behind each urn walks the family of the deceased, bearing shovels and soils and the seed of a tree.

The urns are lowered into the ground. Those who knew the deceased take turns shoveling dirt into the holes, saying good-bye and telling fond stories about the grave's occupant.

When the grave is filled, it is the family's turn to say good-bye, capping the grave not with a headstone, as is tradition in several other Districts, but with the seed from a tree, which they will nurture as a means of mourning for the rest of their lives.

I've always thought this is nicer than the urn winding up in a cold vault somewhere.


	8. District 8

**Matthew Gingham**   
**District 8**   
**Crematorium Worker**

The boss said this one was important. All the boxes look the same to me. And they all look the same coming out.

Wood looks nicer on this one. And there's the name stamped on it: Red Weft.

Right. Another dead kid.

Honestly, this one isn't that different than the other kids I burn. Accidents happen. Fall into a dye vat. Inhale something nasty. Get mangled by a power loom.

This one just got killed by a knife and it happened to be on tv.

The furnace roars and I push the box into its waiting maw. The wood burns first. I pump the bellows, feeding the flames. They are not hot enough and I can smell burning hair and roasting flesh.

There's a reason I don't eat meat.

The furnace burns hotter and hotter as I add in as much fuel as I can afford. Flesh burns away and bones calcify. Most of the smaller bones crumble on their own but I have to crush the skull and the ribcage and the femurs with the back of an iron hoe.

Once everything is reduced to powder, I rake the ash and bone powder into a bag. The bag goes in a box stamped with the same name, Red Weft.

I set the box on the shelf next to the others. Maybe this one will be picked up. Maybe not. Hell, Tweed Spinner's box is still sitting on my shelf.


	9. District 9

**Steven Farina**   
**District 9**   
**Tractor Mechanic**

Twenty years ago I was a pallbearer for my brother. Now, I am a pallbearer for my son.

All I worked for amounts to nothing. Every night class I took and the five years of apprenticeship to become a certified as a mechanic has done nothing for me.

My little boy never had to take tesserae. I made sure of that. No matter how much overtime I had to take, I always made sure we had enough money that he would never have to fear starvation like I had growing up.

That's what parents are supposed to do, right? We make sure our children have better childhoods than we did.

But he still got Reaped.

Gina's left. Blames me. Says my family is bad luck. Says it's my fault our son is dead. Can't say I blame her for it. I'll never forgive her for it all the same.

It's my cousin, Tef, who helps me carry my son.

There is no marking for the gravesite. Bones are bones. They only thing that matters about their burial is that it's far away from groundwater and deep enough animals won't dig it up.

There will be a memorial marker, of course. The dead need to be remembered. They fade if they aren't.

I try to think of a good spot while Tef and I start shoveling dirt into the grave.

There is the park near Field BB023. That's where John has his marker. The swing set is getting old. One of the posts is rotting. I could replace it and use that as Phil's marker.

Yeah, I'll do that. He always loved the swings. I always tried to make sure to have a little bit of time to take him to the park. Even this spring. Sixteen and we still made our time to walk around the park and talk. And I pushed him on the swings, both of us trying to see just how high he could go.

The swings will be a good marker for someone else to make happy memories with.


	10. District 10

**Alberto Roan**   
**District 10**   
**Vaquero**

Father Lorenzo comes to the house in the dead of night, out of sight from the ever-watchful eyes of the Capitol.

In the old days, he once told us, there would be other clergymen with him. But Father Lorenzo comes alone. He sprinkles little Gabriella's coffin with holy water and leads us in the psalm De profundis. It is strange to hear Latin outside of his little adobe church, hidden away in the western hills of the ranch.

With dad gone with the herd and unable to return in time for the funeral, I am temporarily the head of the house. Mom drilled me repeatedly on what I am supposed to do. I really hope I don't mess it up.

Since we don't have a proper cross to bear, I have wrapped my rosary around a walking stick and bear that. I lead the procession. Father Lorenzo walks behind me.

I practiced walking this path many times. The last time, I even blindfolded myself to be sure I could do it. The moon is bright in the sky and the path is easy to follow. A small blessing.

It is too risky to stop by the church first, so we have to go directly to the cemetery. It is the closest thing we have to consecrated ground. We have our own section, separated from the others. If we could do things properly, we would not lie next to Baptists and Protestants and Non-Believers. Father Lorenzo says that it is okay. That the Lord understands our plight.

I hope so. For the sake of all our souls.

Father Lorenzo murmurs in Latin. I do not know the prayer he says but the sound of Latin is a comforting one. I do not need to know the meaning of the words to be consoled by them.

We reach the cemetery. There are a pair of gravediggers waiting nervously. Burying the dead is far from a crime. Praying while doing so is.

I hand mom the walking stick and climb up a mesquite tree to keep watch. There had been Peacekeeper trucks rumbling in the distance before nightfall. It would not do for them to find us.

I can still watch Father Lorenzo circle the grave site, sprinkling more holy water and lighting a stick of incense. He makes the final petition, "May Gabriella's soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace."


	11. District 11

**Thunder Stonefruit**   
**District 11**   
**Berry Picker**

Going to the graveyard, it is somber as it should be. The brass play slow and sad, following behind the coffin. Proper dirges. When the Peacekeepers turn their backs on purpose, looking away for a just a minute, there is even a hymn played.

Never was one for a god or gods. But Rain liked to believe in something holy. Hope that's worked for her, wherever she is now that she's dead.

It's a cold crypt where my sister lies. At least she is among family. All families have a crypt. Even if all you harvest is dirt, everyone has a right to have somewhere to lay their dead. Bones get stacked on bones, but family is used to being close.

We put Rain next to Ol' Ma Hurricane. They always got along in life. Now they can keep each other company in the After.

Now, we got to cut Rain loose. I'll miss her forever but I still got a life to live. And she lived a good one while she had it.

The procession turns around and it is time for the band to lead. They strike up "When The Saints Go Marching In."

Maggie finds me and pulls me into a whirling dance. I let her lead me out of the field of crypts. We dance and dance as the band plays on. My lungs burn and there are tears in my eyes. Maggie cries with me. There's a reason I'm marrying this girl.

By the time we're back in town, everyone is dancing and most of our eyes have dried. Some folks have brought food. The better ones brought liquor.

It's time to dance and eat and drink. It's time to live.


	12. District 12

**Ike Meadows**   
**District 12**   
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

The Capitol provides headstones in the graveyard for the dead tributes. I wish I did not know that. They are the only headstones that ever belong to Seam residents. It's too expensive to buy a headstone on a miner's pay.

Even the graveyard is split between Merchant and Seam. The Merchants have their family graves, above ground tombs and elaborately carved headstones. The Seam residents have rows of small, grey Capitol provided headstones for those unfortunate enough to be Reaped.

I checked earlier, that no one else would be in the graveyard. I really did not want to run into Kitta's family if they chose to actually have her ashes buried in the graveyard. Some families don't keep the ashes from the cremation in the home, but bury them instead, which is weird.

I got flowers. Well, flower seeds. I asked Rory to get them for me, out in the woods. Something hardy. Something wild and free and "you know?"

Wild strawberries and fire azalea and white trillium is what he presented me with. He wanted nothing for them. I traded them for a slab of salt pork from the butcher's anyways.

The flowers just seem like the right thing to do. The Merchant families sometimes leave cut flowers at graves, or buy ones made of silk that look like they're always blooming. The reason ashes should stay at home, though, is so that those who are dead are never removed entirely from the living. Leaving dead things and fakes things at their resting places is just wrong.

So, I've brought living things.

I still have the locket, since Spring refuses to take it back. But given that Jet has a grave with half the ashes in it, I think it should have something living around it, too. Even though part of his ashes are always with me.

For Kitta, it's an apology of sorts. An "I'm sorry for not trying to help you more." She didn't want my help, but I didn't really offer it, either. And she's dead and I'm not and it makes me feel really bad for some reason even if it isn't my fault.

Someone is in the graveyard when I get there with my bag of seeds, trowel, and watering can.

I recognize her, and the grave she is visiting. It's Primrose Everdeen, visiting her sister.

I try to slip by unnoticed.

"Hello, Ike."

I do not go unnoticed.

I feel the need to explain myself. I turn to her, trying to at least not be too rude. "Hi. I'm planting flowers."

Primrose nods. "Would you like some help?"

I consider the offer and find tears welling in my eyes. I try to rub them away. "Yeah. That would be nice."

Another understanding nod. Primrose stands, brushing dirt off of her skirt. "So, what did Rory find for you?"

I happily describe to her the various flowers as we begin planting the seeds. It is far better to dwell on the flowers than where we are planting them.


End file.
